


Thorn and berry

by marginaliana



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8847103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Five times Peter practiced magic on the Victorian farm (and one time the farm had a magic all its own)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/gifts).



**One: September**

The windowsill of their little bedroom under the eaves was just large enough to hold the bowl of milk, though Peter had to juggle it awkwardly into one hand while he cranked open the window with the other. This was their own little cottage rather than the one they'd use for filming; it was just modern enough to be safe in the winter and they did have a small fridge, though they planned only to use it for a few weeks until the pantry had been stocked. Today's milk, then, was store-bought and cold. It had chilled the wood of the bowl already and Peter could feel condensation beginning to form under his palm in the heat of the evening. Warm, fresh milk would have been better, but that would have to wait until they had some livestock in. 

Alex came in just as Peter was settling the bowl down. 

"You putting milk out for the pixies?" Alex said, with a laugh in his voice. He had no way of knowing how close to the truth that was, but it still made Peter shrug uneasily. He had always disliked hiding magic's existence from Alex, but he'd been well-warned about the consequences of breaking the secrecy laws. The High Council had ways of ensuring silence permanently.

At least at university they hadn't lived together, and joining the green valley series had been so unexpected that he'd left magic behind entirely while he was there. But this year it would just be the three of them and he had a long list of magical research to be done. In addition, of course, to his archaeological work and the work of tending to the farm itself. There would be plenty of fudging the truth, even when the film crew wasn't around. "Brownies," he said, passing it off as a joke. "This is Shropshire, you know."

Alex snorted, but after a moment his wry raised eyebrow softened. "Should've known you'd want to do the thing properly."

The fondness in his voice made something in Peter's stomach turn over. Alex had left his daft hat somewhere or other and Peter wanted to cross the three steps between them, wanted to get his hands in Alex's hair and— but he stifled the thought, knowing it would do him no good to indulge. This, unlike the other, was a secret he was well used to keeping.

He often wished he'd said something when they were first getting to know each other. But the truth was, he hadn't even thought of it then, hadn't thought of Alex as anything but first a potential friend, and then an actual friend, and then the best friend he'd ever had, and by the time he'd woken up one morning thinking 'I want to spend the rest of my life with him' it was just… too late. It would have been weird – it would have ruined it. Better to be satisfied with what he had now than to risk having nothing at all.

"Science, Alex," he chided, adopting the exaggerated mannerisms of one of their former lecturers. "Don't ever forget we are doing science here." It was one of the man's favorite sayings and they'd heard it many times over the years. Sometimes Peter even dreamed that sentence, always delivered in the same self-important manner.

"Of course, of course," said Alex hastily, grinning. He crossed the room to stand beside Peter at the window. "Is this all we need, then? Bowl of milk? Or—" He put one hand on the side of the bowl. "—oi, is this from our coffee supplies?"

"Where else do you think I was going to get milk?" 

Alex started to sputter. Peter hid a smile and looked down at the bowl. All that remained was to infuse a little of his magic into the milk; it would make the gift of it just that much more generous, and tie him to the farm besides. It was the work of a moment to do so. On a whim he reached out behind Alex's back and tugged at his aura, snagging a bit of it and disguising the motion with a thump to Alex's elbow. The loss of that little sliver of aura wouldn't be enough to hurt him, though he might be a little tired in the morning. 

It would serve him right for being so worried about his coffee. They were meant to be getting rid of all of those modern conveniences. 

"...and you're not even listening to me, are you?" Alex concluded.

"Nope," Peter said, not bothering to hide his smile this time. Alex snorted and turned back into the room, then flopped backwards onto his mattress and folded his arms behind his head. 

"You think we're actually going to be able to manage it, then?" he asked. "Living and growing things and really understanding what it would've been like for the Victorians?"

Peter touched the rim of the bowl with a fingertip, feeding in the bit of Alex's aura, then forced himself to turn away. He sat down on his own bed and then kicked off his boots and lay down, mirroring Alex's position. "I think so. We got pretty close with the Tudor show and that was less immersive. I think it will be useful to actually sleep on-site, even if we do have proper heating and running water."

"Yeah," Alex said. He was silent for a long moment. At last he said, quietly, "I'm glad you're doing this with me, Fonzie."

Peter closed his eyes briefly. "I'm glad I am, too," he said.

\-----

In the morning, the bowl of milk was empty.

 

**Two: December**

Peter thrummed awake with the silent jolt of his waking spell just before dawn. He slipped on trousers and a fresh shirt, then grabbed his shoes from under the bed and snuck out into the hallway while Alex remained, snoring, in the other bed. Once Peter had closed the door behind him he risked a witchlight, mainly just to keep from tumbling down the cottage's rickety stairway. It was cold against the palm of his hand, but not as cold as the morning air. Downstairs, his new green wool coat hung by the door and everything he needed was already in its pockets.

The grass crunched faintly under his feet as he walked past the barn and the new pigsty and across the paddock. The sheep were huddled together in a mass against the wind and they were snoring, too – a little more softly than Alex had been. Peter spared them a faint smile and carried on past to the next field and then down through the copse of trees that marked the edge of the stream. 

It would be Christmas in just a few days. They had been filming the festivities all week so as to leave the crew free for the day itself, though, and Peter felt a little odd doing the solstice ceremony after a Christmas feast rather than before. Still, it was the date that counted, not the other holiday trappings.

A mile and a half downstream, just at the edge of the farm's boundaries, was a clearing. In it stood a circle of standing stones. Peter let the witchlight drop, but the pale moonlight was enough to let him see the shape of the stones and the cloud of his breath in the air, and anyway the sun would be rising soon.

He'd discovered this place only a few weeks ago – it wasn't on any of the maps of the farm or the regional ordnance survey map, and he had already begun preparing an article about the significance of its location that he hoped to submit to the _Journal of British Magical Studies_. 

He went around widdershins, leaving his offerings at the base of the stones, each to each. One of Ruth's hairpins – she'd been carping about having lost it for several days now – followed by a scrap of wool from Fred the ram, an exceptionally-green apple, a crust of bread, the lace out of Alex's left boot, Peter's own left glove, and an old horseshoe.

He wasn't entirely sure about the horseshoe, since it was iron, but there was certainly evidence of the period in favor of it. It would be interesting to see whether the stones took it or left it – or whether they stayed dormant entirely. 

By the time he'd finished placing everything, the eastern horizon had brightened considerably. He straightened up and stepped into the center of the circle. The air warmed around him. 

He lifted his voice. "Awake, stones, awake and greet the world, awake and rise! Now, in the dawn of the year when all is quiet, awake." Strictly speaking the portentous tone wasn't necessary, but it was difficult not to fall into the familiar cadences when spellcasting, even in English. "Now, when the blanket of frost is on the world, awake. Now, when the earth is fallow and the air is still, awake." 

The sun rose then, scattering orange-red light across the frosted branches of the trees and setting the stones into stark relief against the sky. "Awake!" Peter said and clapped his hands together, and the echoes rang out across the clearing. 

For a moment, all was silent. Then a voice spoke in the back of his head, hollow and deep and rough like stone grating against stone.

"Speaker, we wake," it said. "Speaker, we greet thee. Speaker, we rise."

\-----

By the time he got back to the cottage the others were both up and dressed in the kitchen, Ruth starting some porridge on to cook and Alex sat in a chair by the door, frowning over his left boot. "Peter," Alex said, "was there a particular reason you decided to deprive me of my bootlace? Or just an urgent desire to see me hop about on one foot all day?"

Peter huffed out a laugh. "I needed it to get Ruth's hairpin out of the pond," he said, pulling out the pin and the lace. The stones had taken them both – and the horseshoe, and the rest – but then tumbled everything back out again at Peter's feet, a little muddier and colder but glowing as bright as the dawn to his magical sight. He'd stopped on the way back up to wash them in the pond, which handily provided a good excuse for their absence in the first place. "Although if you wanted to attempt to feed chickens while hopping, I certainly wouldn't turn down the free entertainment."

"My hairpin!" Ruth said. She favored Peter with a warm look as she took it. "I've no idea how I managed to drop it into the pond, though. Good job you spotted it."

Peter made a vague noise of agreement.

"But did you _have_ to use my bootlace?" Alex whined. He picked it up out of Peter's palm, an easy gesture; Peter had to force himself not to twitch when Alex's fingertips brushed against his skin. It was always harder to be in company when he'd just done a major working. He was laid bare like this, not physically but magically, and it would be far too simple to make a permanent connection between them, even without Alex's consent. But, perhaps selfishly, he had wanted to share the moment with them nonetheless.

"Well, I had a try just reaching for it at first," he said, "but the water was too cold. I'm afraid my glove will need a bit of drying as well." He pulled the glove out from his other pocket and slopped it limply onto the corner of the kitchen table. To his eyes it was still glowing.

"Peter, you idiot," Alex said, dropping his exaggerated annoyance all at once. "You could've given yourself frostbite." He grabbed for Peter's hand and this time Peter did twitch, snatching his arm away before the touch connected. Alex sat back, a brief expression of hurt passing across his face before it smoothed out into blankness.

"You don't need to mother me, you know," Peter said. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. A big strong animal, didn't you say?" It was a feeble deflection. Over Alex's head, Ruth gave him a knowing look. Peter winced internally, but he met her eyes and he could see the moment when she decided to take pity on him.

"Yes, well," she said briskly. "If there's any danger of frostbite, I have just the thing for it. A guaranteed Victorian remedy."

"And what would that be?" Alex asked. He was still a little closed off, not at all like his usual self.

"Hopping," she said succinctly. "Three or four hours ought to do it." There was a beat, and then Peter picked up the wet glove and threw it at her, and Alex burst into laughter.

 

**Three: February**

They took turns having time away from the farm for the holiday, Ruth at actual Christmas – by unspoken agreement between Alex and Peter – and then Alex next and Peter last. As much as he enjoyed seeing his family and friends and the satisfaction of checking in with the lead investigator of the grant for his magical studies, Peter found himself on edge after only a few days. Everyone seemed to think he must be grateful for the chance to get back to his real life, if only briefly. 

But he was beginning to hate that phrase – real life – as if the farm weren't real, as if it wasn't the most real thing he'd ever done, his hands covered in dirt and splinters, the wind on his face and the magic of the land humming in his veins. He'd kept his flat mainly because finding another one in the current market would have been a nightmare, but when he went by to sort through his mail there was dust on all the countertops and the sheets he'd slung over the furniture made it look like some sort of alien laboratory. It felt inert, _dead_ even, despite the crystals hung on the back of the bedframe and the rabbit-skin book he'd found in the Portobello Road market that kept hopping off the bookcase.

He stayed only twenty minutes, most of it spent stuffing magical journals and supplies into his bag. The crawling feeling on the back of his neck didn't go away until he got off the train in Acton Scott and walked the last mile alone across the fields to the cottage. When he passed through the gate into the farmyard, it felt like coming home.

\-----

He threw himself into physical work over the next few weeks, sawing wood and repairing machinery and fence-making until his hands were splintered and raw and his shoulders ached. He touched almost everything, infusing magic where he could – fence posts, sheep, pigs, the cobblestones of the barnyard, the blacksmith's bellows, the water pump, Ruth's pots of hand salve, the tips of new sprouts just beginning in the fields, Ruth herself when he could get away with it under the guise of brushing something off her shoulder or passing her a plate. 

And Alex, of course – because if he had anything to give he was always going to give it to Alex. That, at least, was easy enough, in the moment of a clap to the back or a hoist up into the hayloft or wrestling pigs or when they'd birthed their first lamb and then clung to each other for a long moment despite the cameras. He'd always found it easy to infuse but it felt even easier now, like he could do it with only a thought, without even a touch. Something to investigate when he had ready access to a magical library again.

He was writing a list of these in his notebook. The three of them spent most evenings writing by candlelight after dinner, Ruth at her recipe book and Alex at his annotations for _The Book of the Farm_ and Peter with his magical notes covered up with a guising spell to look like they were about plows and steam engines. Occasionally they even _were_ notes about steam engines. 

Sometimes they'd put on the radio – a period set, but tuned in to the BBC so that they weren't completely cut off from the outside world – and work away at some craft or other. Ruth was knitting a shawl for her daughter. Alex was carving a duck call and Peter himself making a feeble attempt at learning how to tie knots from an old sailor's book. Mainly he just snarled himself hopelessly in the string, which was at least good for a laugh if nothing else.

At night he slept easily and deeply, despite Alex's snoring. While he did so, the magic of the farm welled up like clear water from a spring, filling all the hollow places inside him that he'd emptied out during the day. As if his departure and return had unlocked something that even the solstice ritual hadn't been able to touch. As if the farm could sense what he was doing, as if it wanted to reach out to him as much as he was reaching out to it. 

He knew Alex and Ruth couldn't feel it in the same way he could, but he thought they felt _something_. They must.

 

**Four: April**

The little shepherd's hut was big enough for a miniature stove, a ledge that served as a table, and a bench. And two shepherds, but only if they both sat on the bench.

Actually, Alex was lying down, because after supper and chess and some impromptu ghost stories they had decided to take the sleeping in shifts. Alex had his knees drawn up, feet just hitched up against the end of the bench, though none of that was visible beneath the thick woolen blanket that came all the way up to his chin. His head was pillowed on Peter's thigh. 

There was a fire going in the stove – enough that they'd been able to manage a warm-ish supper of stew – but the blankets were definitely necessary. Peter had his own, which smelled of wet sheep; he'd left one arm free so that he could stir the fire if necessary. He could have cast an amplifying spell on it, if he'd been alone. But Alex was here, and when he awoke he'd almost certainly notice the difference. So blankets and coal smoke it was.

Peter had thought about it, of course: the idea of telling Alex the truth. The trouble was that even if he could get Alex to believe magic existed – far from a foregone conclusion – he knew Alex wouldn't be satisfied with witchlights and guising spells. He'd want to see a major working; he'd want to investigate and ask endless questions and do proper science, even though he wouldn't be able to do any magic himself. All of which was part of what Peter loved about him, that enthusiasm for understanding things. But it would make them much more likely to get caught. He could apply for an exemption, of course, but the process took months and like as not it would be denied anyway. Exemption applications for friends often were, as if the High Council couldn't imagine how such a friendship would even come about, as if they still thought all magical practitioners had attended the same college at Oxford and associated only with each other. 

It could be different if they were something else to each other.

Peter had been thinking about that, too, lately. Sometimes it seemed like Alex looked at him with speculation in his eye, or a fondness that was just a little _too_ warm to be merely friendly affection. Sometimes when they touched, Alex lingered just a little too long – tonight when he'd settled down to sleep Peter had thought it would be slumped against the wall, half-upright. Perhaps with his head lolling sideways onto Peter's shoulder – not with his head practically in Peter's lap. 

But Alex had done it so easily that Peter hadn't had time to object, even if he'd wanted to.

He didn't even know if he'd wanted to, if this was too close or not close enough. It was all mixed up in his head, like the tangles of brambles that had grown up in all the untended places on the estate, capturing old equipment and covering it up with leaves and vines and berries and thorns.

Alex snorted in a breath and shifted a little, then resettled himself without waking. Peter put out his hand, let it hover half an inch above Alex's hair. After a moment he sighed and whispered out a protection cantrip that warded off germs and minor muscle aches. 

He could allow himself that much, at least.

 

**Five: July**

It was raining. It had been raining for weeks, nearly without pause, and the hay crop was looking more and more bedraggled. If they didn't harvest soon, it would be worthless. Peter had spent the last few wet afternoons trying a succession of period-appropriate weather spells out in the distant fields, lighting bits of grass and chanting and drawing patterns in the mud with feathers from their roosters. When he realized that the roosters were beginning to avoid him, he gave up in disgust; that evening he wrote up all the details in his notebook, concluding the page with 'NONE OF THIS WORKS' and then underlining it just for good measure. 

It wasn't entirely surprising – Britain was hardly known for its weather magic and Peter could see why, if the sky over the rest of the country was as obstinate as it was over Shropshire. Still, it was hard to watch the weary lines growing at the corners of Alex's eyes, the way his shoulders slumped whenever he peered out of the window of their bedroom only to see a grey horizon once again. 

It would be worse still, though, not to see him at all, or only rarely. There were only weeks now until the end of their time on the farm, only weeks until they'd have to go back to some other kind of life. Peter didn't know exactly what he was going to do with himself – there were a few more months left on the grant, enough to let him write up most of his results and start trying to publish them. He supposed he'd start with that. He'd have to finish his portion of the book for the BBC, too. His old archeology lecturer job would be waiting for him in the spring but it was difficult to imagine going back to it, being in a classroom instead of a field. It was easier to imagine himself alone in his flat, writing Alex long emails and flicking through photos from their university days like some sort of ridiculous old Tudor swain. Easier, but not any more pleasant.

But what else could he do? Time would not stop here – the world would not cease its turning. If he'd learned nothing else from studying history, he'd still have learned that much.

 

**\+ One: August**

They harvested the wheat in a rare dry spell, most with the reaper-binder but some by hand, then stooked it as the storm clouds rolled in and began to sprinkle. With Ronald Hutton and the film crew in attendance they blindfolded Ruth and handed her a scythe to cut the last sheaf, then performed a charming little wheat spirit ceremony that, as far as Peter could tell, had no effect whatsoever. At least it distracted everyone from the prospect of more rain. Then, perversely, the rain retreated half an hour later, leaving the fields barely damp. 

For weeks after that the clouds were a constant threat, though only occasionally did they deign to dispense actual rain. Alex had taken to eying them with a heavy sigh every morning and reading obsessively over _The Book of the Farm_ each evening; Ruth was outwardly more sanguine about the potential of losing the crop, but Peter could read worry in the set of her jaw nonetheless. Nothing actually depended on the harvest beyond their pride, of course – but that was enough, especially after the failure of the hay. About the only thing that cheered Alex up was their ridiculous attempt at making beer.

They packed up the cottage and picked a date to bring in the wheat harvest using a Victorian almanac and a bit of rudimentary weather science. When it came around the sky was as overcast as ever – still, they'd got the crew and a handful of volunteers for the day and they had to make the most of it.

The first few stooks were difficult to manage, but once they got the first layer down it went more easily. Peter fell into a rhythm, lifting and turning and placing the wheat until his back ached and his hands, even roughened from a year of hard work, were beginning to feel sore. At last he paused, allowing himself a brief moment to straighten up and massage his back, to look over and make sure Alex hadn't fallen off the dray or impaled himself on a pitchfork. As he watched, Alex pulled off his hat, swiped a weary arm across his forehead. 

All at once, the sun came out.

Alex's hair lit up, brown-gold and glowing like the stooked wheat that now stretched out down the field behind him. Peter must have made a noise then – though he could not hear it over the sudden rush of blood in his ears – because Alex turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in that inquisitive expression that he so often wore.

Peter knew he ought to look away. 

"Ah," Alex said. His shoulders relaxed abruptly. "You idiot." He took a step closer, careful on the uneven surface of the wheat and the dray. There was an odd, soft smile easing up the corners of his mouth. "What did you _think_ I was going to say?"

"Don't know," Peter managed. 

"You should've done." Another step, and then Alex was chucking his hat away into the field and reaching up to cup Peter's face in his hands, drawing him into a kiss. His mouth was summer hot, the kiss blossoming between them like a seed bursting forth from soil. Peter's skin prickled where they touched and the air felt thick in his mouth, heavy with something that wasn't quite electricity and wasn't quite magic. He leaned in, kissing the parted bow of Alex's lips, tasting him. 

Alex groaned, low and soft, and the sound of it made Peter's hair stand on end. They kissed and kissed again, softly, achingly. Alex nuzzled at the corner of Peter's mouth, turned his head to the side and kissed his way across Peter's jaw, nestling his face into the hollow of his throat where the knot of his kerchief rested. Stubble rasped against skin. Peter shuddered and tilted his head back. Above them the sky was getting clearer.

"Alex," he said. 

"Mmm?"

"The wheat." One of his hands had moved entirely of its own volition and was cupped around the back of Alex's neck, holding him close. Some small part of his mind wondered idly whether Ruth was watching or the crew, whether the cameras were on. He couldn't bring himself to care. 

Alex lifted his head and their eyes met.

"Right," Alex said, somewhat unsteadily. "The wheat."

"Later?" said Peter. 

" _Yes_."

Peter let himself drink in the sight of Alex's pink cheeks for another half a second, then forced himself to turn away. 

It turned out Ruth _was_ watching, with an incredibly smug expression on her face. The feeling that the land was radiating indicated that it was pretty pleased with itself, too.

"Stop looking at me like that," Peter told her, but he was smiling. "Get to work. The wheat isn't going to bring itself in, you know." Although he felt so brimmed full of happiness that he probably could have done the whole thing with magic, just at the moment.

\-----

Later there would be food and dancing, the drinking of terrible beer and the playing of games better left un-filmed. Later they would have to turn over the key to the cottage, say goodbye to the farm and the friends they'd made here. Later Peter would slip away with a bowl of mixed beer and honey to leave in a corner of the garden, one last offering for the brownies. Later they would let Clumper take them to the station.

But he knew now that this wouldn't be the end. He would take it with him when he left, all of this – the look in Alex's eye, the sun on his face. The growth of something new, the memory of something old. The farm's magic in his veins, in his fingertips. And he'd leave something, too – the work of his hands, the work of his magic. He would remember the farm and the farm would remember him, long after they were parted.


End file.
